


Fragments

by Chilord



Category: Multi-Fandom
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-11
Updated: 2018-02-01
Packaged: 2018-09-07 19:45:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,014
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8813902
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chilord/pseuds/Chilord
Summary: Story starts that will likely never quite make it to full fics





	1. Chapter 1

Title: Bright Son, Dark Knight, and Fathers’ Tears

Disclaimer: DC Copyright holds true

Author’s notes: Just a piece of an idea I came up with that I couldn’t see to its conclusion.

Thomas Wayne sipped upon the tumbler of brandy in his hand and stared at the scene in front of him. 

His son. His beautiful little boy, dressed in the night, his body bruised and bleeding, his spirit unbowed and unyielding. His child, his legacy: Gotham’s Dark Knight.

“May I join you?” The voice was soft and polite, cultured with an accent Thomas couldn’t identify.

Turning, Thomas saw a man he had never met before, dressed in a strange set of robes the likes of which he had never before encountered. For a moment, he almost turned him away. But there was something… familiar about him.

“… I suppose.” Thomas allowed, nodding his head quietly.

“Thank you.” The man stated simply as he looked at what Thomas had been watching. “Your son?”

“Yes.” Thomas agreed quietly nodding his head as he quietly sipped his brandy again, staring at the scenes in front of him. “I had hoped he would be a doctor.” 

“I hoped mine would be a scientist.” The man stated quietly as he watched the scenes. 

“Ah.” Thomas nodded his head quietly before staring into his brandy. “I know all fathers want to believe it… but my boy could’ve been anything he wanted. What he did choose… I often can’t decide to be proud what he has done or horrified at what he forces himself to endure.”

“I understand.” The man said softly, nodding his head quietly. “My own son… He was found and raised by good people. He was taught to be a good man. And at times, I wonder if they taught him to be a better man than I myself could have.

“He has become more than I ever imagined. He has fought the things my people feared, and stood triumphant as a single man, where we as a people would have faltered.”

Again, Thomas nodded as he stared at the images in front of him as he lifted up his drink. “To Sons, and the hope that they become better men than their fathers.”

The man smiled sadly and nodded. “I simply wish…”

“You had more time with him?” Thomas offered nodding his head. “To tell him you’re proud of him? That you love him? That you wished you could’ve been there?”

“Indeed.” The man agreed with a nod of his head as he looked into the distance. “He was just a babe when I was forced to send him off, he wouldn’t really remember me, not as his father.”

“Bruce will always remember my death. He will remember life leaving me, leaving my wife…. He will always bear those scars for the rest of his life.” Thomas stated softly. 

“So many regrets.” The man agreed quietly before nodding quietly to himself. “Forgive me. I am Jor-El. My son…”

“Is Superman.” Thomas finished softly as he finally understood why the man seemed so familiar. “He looks like you, you know.”

“Thank you.” Jor-El stated quietly. “And your son is the Batman. The man my son respects the most out of all of humanity.”

“He envies you son,” Thomas stated as he nodded his head to the image before them. “Not in any sinister way of course, not for his power, not for his abilities…

“He respects your son too much for that,” there was a pause, as Thomas stared down into his drink for a moment. “He envies the hope your son brings, and believes that he can only bring fear.”

“Kal envies your son as well,” Jor-El noted with a faint bit of a smile on his lips. “For so many things.”

“I do hope it’s not the philandering,” Thomas noted with a shake of his head. “Lord knows, Martha won’t let him hear the end of that.”

“No, I can’t say that he does,” Jor-El agreed, before pausing, his eyes dancing a bit. “Well, at least not that he’ll admit.”

“I see there is some universality to men,” Thomas noted with a dry chuckle.

“Some at least. No, Kal envies the way nothing stops your son from doing what’s right. The way he can endure things that he doesn’t believe he himself could. The madness, the loss, the grief…” Jor-El shook his head and sighed mournfully. “I do not understand how he does myself.”

Thomas went still with that, staring off into the distance with a look of exquisite sadness on his face. “Because he has to. Because he believes that it must be done from the depths of his being. Because his rebuilt himself around that very concept and made it the core of who he is.”

Thomas slumped down fully into his chair and stared, listlessly forward, “My beautiful, beautiful broken little boy. I never meant for this to be the path you took.” 

“It is the nature of parents to want, selfishly for their child’s wellbeing,” Jor-El noted as he took the seat next to Thomas. “My son… Throwing himself against the darkest things the galaxies have to offer. Darkseid, Mongol… My son, the last hope of my people, such a horribly good man you have become.”

“Terribly good men,” Thomas agreed with a nod of his head. “To tread upon the dreams of your parents, all in the name of doing them proud.”

“To throw aside a happy, quiet life in the name of doing what’s right…” Jor-El smiled bitterly. “I suppose I have no one to blame but myself. Had I been more selfish, I could have spent my energies dedicated to saving the lives of myself and my family. I knew that they would not listen, but still I tried.”

“I knew Gotham was a city of the Damned,” Thomas declared softly, “That it could not be so easily saved, that no matter how hard I tried as one good man, I could not undo the tide my family has failed to hold back since we helped raise up this monster. I could only work to mitigate the darkness as much as I could. 

“But my son… my son dedicates himself to saving a city that gives him nothing but pain, anguish and betrayal, wants to save a city that has no desire to be saved,” Thomas stated softly. “Because he wants to be a man I could be proud of.”

“Our sons, who do not realize everything we did was so that they could have a happy life better than our own,” Jor-El agreed with a nod with slumped shoulders of his own. “And foolish is the father who wishes for his son to rise to the position of crusader.”

“For the blade of the crusader weighs heavily upon the soul, and his shield a burden on his heart,” Thomas agreed with a quiet nod. “It is enough of a shame to force this burden upon his wife. To do the same to his son?”

“And yet, what son does not wish to emulate his father?” Jor-El stated with a soft bitterness. “Or in the case of tragedy, be better than him?”

“So, we create our own tragedy,” Thomas agreed with a nod as he stared at the image of his beaten, bleeding, broken but unbowed son. “Sons, striving to live up to their father’s shadows, and condemning our own children to that same fate.”

“And the worst of it, for all the pain it brings, all we can do is be proud of them,” Jor-El agreed with a nod. “For what proud father could look upon his son and the earnest effort he makes, and the successes he achieves and reprimand him for being too good of a man?”

“Indeed,” Thomas whispered in agreement with a nod of his head, his eyes glistening softly in unshed tears. “And for every blow they take, every wound they suffer, every tragedy they overcome, we must never let them see that the tears we shed are the tears of pain and guilt instead of the pride we tell them.”

“It is a half of a lie at best,” Jor-El reminded him softly with a shake of his head. “For there is pride, justifiable even. But…”

“But we do not want to see our children suffer,” Thomas stated simply and shook his head. “We cannot give them everything, that would foster spirit of covetousness and greed, but we can show them to work for things and reward them… teaching them responsibility without the needless cruelty of an uncaring world.”

And Jor-El slumped in his seat. “I do not know if I could have done such a thing. Taught my son those things. Been the father Jonathan Kent was. Is it sad, Mr. Wayne, that I can count my proudest accomplishment as a father is that by chance, my son reached and was raised by a good family?”

Before Thomas could respond, another voice cut in. “I think you’re doing yourself a disservice there.” 

Startled, Jor-El turned his head to behold a man he very much did not wish to see. Jonathan Kent, smiling gently back to the man, standing behind him.

He flinched and looked away, only to feel a strong hand clapping down on his shoulder. “You did the best you could in a rotten situation. You tried to save your people and you managed to save your son. Not your fault they were too proud to listen.”

“… Mr. Kent, I think you overestimate me,” Jor-El stated softly and shook his head. “I knew in my heart, that the council would not see reason, their pride would not let them. But, I blinded myself to what else I could have done. How many others could I have saved? If I had not spent so much time and effort gathering the information, the proof, the arguments… How many lives could I have saved? How much more of a family, of a race could I have left him?”

“And how much more guilt would weigh on your soul, knowing that you had not done everything you could have to convince them?” Jonathan pressed him gently.

“I could stand that guilt! I could stand the blood and despair on my hands. I could stand the looks of accusation sent at me by the million,” Jor-El declared, hissing the words out. “I already bear them from selfish, ignorant fools who think that somehow, I should have done more, that I should have saved them or their child instead of just my own. That I should have been able to convince the council in time to save everyone.”

He paused and then shook his head, an ugly look on his face. “I barely had the time to create the prototype that saved Kal, and they would have had me sacrifice that on the altar of their self-centered…”

“Easy there,” Jonathan stated gently squeezed the man’s shoulder lightly. “Most people will look to blame the easiest target instead of the best target. If you’re there, then you’re there. No point in feeling any anger to them, they’re just people being people. They just don’t know any better.”

“How can they not?” Thomas asked quietly, staring back at Jonathan with a lost look on his face. “They know, they cannot not know, that the fault lies with themselves, with the ones that denied the problem, the ones that created it, that were correct, or arrogant or vain…”

“Why do they blame the ones that tried to help?” Jonathan finished the unanswered question before shrugging a bit. “Because they think the men and women who tried to help will take it. They think they have less to fear from them than those who are truly responsible, the callous, the greedy, the ruthless. So, they’re the safe option to blame.

“And it doesn’t help that they’re usually right,” Jonathan admitted quietly as he stared out into the distance. “But, they’re raised to be people, not men or women.”

“Then, pray tell, what is the difference between a person and a man or a woman?” Thomas asked, curiosity tinged with frigid anger.

“A person just is. They’ve been raised to be a person, either no one tried to teach them how to be a man or a woman, or they decided it was too much work, too much responsibility and they abdicated it,” Jonathan stated simply. “A man or a woman does not take things for granted. They understand what it means to take responsibility, and the burdens it requires them to shoulder.

“A man, or a woman, knows that they have to think. That they can’t just feel, can’t just react, they have to think, to work, to consider. And they know that at times you have to stand up and say ‘No’ to those who try to ply you with promises of sweat meats and perfume.”

“So, what, there is no point to it? That our sons will suffer needlessly for being men in a sea of people?” Jor-El asked, a great weariness set upon his shoulders.

“That doing what’s right is a job with too few thanks and too little reward,” Jonathan admitted with a nod of his head before squaring his shoulders. “But, we still do it, not because of the people, but so that we can say we left the world a better place for our children and their children and their children. Even if we leave them a legacy of thankless sacrifice, bit by bit, piece by piece we make it better.”

“How did I leave my son a better…!” Jor-El started to demand, a flash of anger on his face.

“You had to watch your home and people commit suicide as a race because they refused to believe they were wrong. Your son watches over his new home and people where he doesn’t have to do the same,” Jonathan stated quietly, “I’d call that a better world and a better life than he would’ve had otherwise.”

The anger drained from Jor-El and he slumped down into his seat, nodding quietly in resignation.

Jonathan then turned his look to Thomas and gave him a look of sadness. “Raised a good man.”

“Alfred more than me,” Thomas noted quietly and shook his head.

“You were there to lay the foundation, all Alfred did was work off of what you already set down,” Jonathan stated simply and shook his head. “You fought for your city, with charity and medicine. He fights for his city with charity, and everything else he has.”

“And his children suffer for it,” Thomas stated softly as the image shifted to three young men and 3 young women. “He is so focused on his mission…”

“That he doesn’t understand how to be the father they need,” Jonathan agreed with a quiet nod of his head. “He thinks that everytime he puts on that cape and cowl, he’s just one step closer to when he finally fights his last fight. And he doesn’t want them to hurt like he hurt. Stupid. Noble, but stupid. A bit like the nonsense Clark goes through with Lois.”

“Then how, pray tell, did I leave my son a better life?” Thomas demanded quietly.

“You left him a better world, a better position, a better company than what you had. A company he has in turn grown and used to make the world a better place.”

And then Jonathan sat down in a chair of his own before staring out into the distance. “Sometimes I wonder if he in Clark didn’t end up getting the wrong father’s traits. That boy of yours has as much stubbornness as I ever did in accepting help.”

“… And your son seems to not have that problem,” Thomas noted quietly.

“Neither did you,” Jonathan agreed with a faint smile before chuckling. “Not to mention which one is the one that actually uses science and his head regularly.” 

Jor-El smiled faintly but nodded his head, “… how did you stand it when Kal… Clark faced Darkseid?”

“I didn’t have the context you did,” Jonathan admitted with a shrug. “To me, it was just alien trying to take things over. Never found out until later it was one of the universe’s boogeymen.” 

“And when you did?” Jor-El asked quietly as he stared at Jonathan.

“I watched the age of heroes stand up and roar on Earth,” Jonathan Kent stated as he looked Jor-El in the eye. “And I pitied any sum’bitch that thinks he can come to Earth and pick of a fight with my boy and his friends. Because from what I’ve seen… on Earth, we’ve got a plethora of men and women, good and bad. And in the end, its home to all of them. And no one is taking it without a fight.”

Jor-El and Thomas Wayne both stared at the man for a long moment in disbelief, then looked at one another. “Well, I suppose that explains their propensity for solving problems with their fists.”

There was silence, before all three of them broke down and laughed.


	2. Untitled dungeon Keeper fragment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just a small Harry Potter/Dungeon Keeper Fragment that I started then ran out of steam on.

Title:

Disclaimer: Dungeon Keeper Unfortunately Belongs to EA. Harry Potter Belongs to JK Rowling. I am neither

Author’s notes: Ran out of real desire for this one. Still at least got it started.

-o-o-o-

The world spun and twisted around him in a brilliant kaleidoscope of colors that bled together until it was a singular, blinding white that consumed everything.

His felt the wrenching, centered below his gut, pulling him as he felt as if suddenly, everything he was exploded out. For an instant, there was a singular clarity. For a moment, he felt as if he was everywhere, all at once. 

Then he came crashing back down as he landed, weak knees digging into cold, dark stone. For a moment, there was silence, his head swimming. Then, as he struggled to recall where he was, even, who he was, a voice thundered through the very walls around him.

“What. Is. This?” Every word, cold, collected and brimming with malice as it dripped out of the walls. 

“Ah, I, um, I'm not terribly sure, My Lord.” The voice was hesitant, quaking softly in palpable fear. “The, ah, spell, well, it wasn't, exactly, um... very... specific?”

“This, this is supposed to be the great Chosen Champion?” Cold, dripping scorn, before slipping into a flat displeasure. “This is a boy. Weak and powerless. This is what you promised me would help bring about my Domination of that blasted King and those foolish Keepers who dared oppose me?”

“Actually, My Lord, I did tell you that...URGK!” The voice cut off, as if suddenly being strangled.

He opened his eyes then, and forced them, blinking back the tears as he looked up to see a haughty faced man in purple, gold trimmed robes struggling against a disembodied green hand.

“Your exact words, warlock, were: ‘Surely, no matter what the champion is, you will be able to find a use for him.’” Again, the voice reverberated around them, filling the air, drilling into his skull.

“I, ah, may have overestimated the-URRK!” The face purpled as the hand tightened again, and the body was slowly lifted up, dangling in the air.

His eyes narrowed, instincts rose, and he clenched onto a familiar grip. Then, his hand rose, and gestured. 

“EXPELLIARMUS!”

A flash of brilliant white energy left the tip of a slim, wooden wand, and flashed out, striking the hand and suddenly sending it flying away from the warlock's throat. Dropped bonelessly to his feet, the warlock quickly rubbed his throat. Coughing, he slowly stared at the boy he'd summon, face a mix of relief and disbelief.

“... Interesting. Perhaps he could be useful after all.” The voice slowly chuckled, echoing around the boy and making him shiver lightly. “Tell me, boy, what is your name, and what are you?”

There was a slight hesitance the boy, glancing around him, trying to pin point the sound, before slowly, warily he shrugged his shoulder. “I'm Harry Potter and I'm a wizard.”

-o-o-o-

His head pounded as he caught himself just before his knees hit the ground. He did not kneel. Not to anyone. Never again.

With a slow, hissing breath, he steadied himself, focusing his eyes on the fingers splaying before him, counting out the pale, slender digits of his new hand. Just as it should be. Wasn't it?

It took him a moment to order his mind, to reshuffle his thoughts and bring up his latest memory.

“Wizard, what is this?” The voice that spoke was regal, grand, and filled with a familiar arrogance. “We were supposed to be using the power of the Portal gem to summon forth the opposite, the counter to the champion that vile Keeper was conjuring! Not to call forth an abomination!”

Abomination? Rage seethed beneath his skin, bubbling, coursing through his veins as he clenched his fingers tight. Then, they relaxed, flowing away with long, almost forgotten practice.

“I am not sure, my lord. Based on the information our spies managed to gather, including the copy of the dark warlock's ritual they managed to capture, anything summoned forth by our spell should be a foe of power that even that dark champion fears.”

Dark champion? Well now, then that would mean... A slow, calculating smile graced his lips unseen for a moment.

Then he rose, smoothly, gracefully with strength he could only barely spare as he regarded the speakers for a moment. 

One was a tall, impossibly so man, with tight, corded muscles and steely grey hair. Well used, but perfectly maintained armor, polished to gleam, reflected in the brilliant light flowing from the sparkling gem before him. Atop his head, a thick, almost helmet-like crown perched with bright, shining jewels.

The other, dressed in blue, his robes only a shade less extravagant than the man he hated more than any other. With a thicker, shorter beard on his fact, he peered back at him, slightly hunched forward. In his hands, he held a gem tipped staff, thrumming with power as he watched him warily.

“Ah, I beg your pardon about my appearance, I'm afraid I ran afoul of a particularly powerful and vile warlock, who cursed me,” he spoke in smooth, sibilant tones as he smiled charmingly at the pair. “Do you, by chance recognize the name of Dumbledore?”

When both, warily shook their heads, it was all he could do not to break into an even broader smile, before nodding his head. “Ah, a truly powerful enchanter, a master of transfiguration. When I opposed him and his ways, I was cast down, my features taken from me, forced into this mockery of a human form, but still I fight him.”

There was sympathy, flashing through the king's eyes for a moment, as he warily continued to watch the man. “And tell me, was this... Dumbledore, one you fought?”

“I was his student, once,” he admitted with a slow, sad nod of his head, “However, when he tried to force me down his path, I fled, gathering like-minded individuals, before we fought back against his forces. I was the greatest foe he had ever known!”

“And this... Dumbledore, he was powerful?” The wizard spoke up next, watching the man, carefully though he relaxed, ever so slightly. 

“I am a wizard of no small skill, I was the only one to have ever dueled him as an equal and not been cast down,” he paused then, before gesturing to himself. “But as you can see, he has left his mark upon me... and still our final battle has yet to be concluded.”

“Sire, if he speaks the truth, then....” There was a note of worry in the wizard's voice as he glanced at his lord.”

“Aye,” the king agreed, nodding his head slightly. “Tell me then, oh wizard, by what name are you known?”

“Ah, I am known, your Majesty, as Lord Voldemort.” There was a pause, before cold, reptilian lips pulled back into a smile of white, pearly teeth. “But please, do call me Tom.”


End file.
